October 17 - Black Poetry Day in the U.S.A.

Posted on October 17, 2021

Key Points

This is an update of my post published on October 17, 2010:

This is a great excuse to delve into the poetry of such luminaries as Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, Phillis Wheatley, and Paul Laurence Dunbar.

And how about this year’s newest poetry star, Amanda Gorman?

Why is Black Poetry Day on October 17? It is the birthday of Jupiter Hammon (pictured above), the first published African American poet, who was born into slavery on this day in 1711.

Hammon lived enslaved his whole life and was the son of two enslaved parents. He lived during the time that slavery was legal in the North as well as the South, and he was – wrongfully! – “owned” by a family living in Queens, New York.

Here are some wonderful poems by Black poets, and some links, to get your day off to a great start:

Langston Hughes

Children’s Rhymes

by Langston Hughes

By what sends

the white kids

I ain’t sent:

I know I can’t

be President.

What don’t bug

them white kids

sure bugs me:

We know everybody

ain’t free.

Lies written down

for white folks

ain’t for us a-tall:

Liberty And Justice–

Huh!–For All?

Find more poetry by Langston Hughes here.

Gwendolyn Brooks

We Real Cool

by Gwendolyn Brooks

We real cool. We

Left school. We

Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We

Die soon.

Find more poetry by Gwendolyn Brooks here.

Paul Dunbar

An Easy Goin’ Feller

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

THER’ ain’t no use in all this strife,

 An’ hurryin’, pell-mell, right thro’ life.

 I don’t believe in goin’ too fast

 To see what kind o’ road you’ve passed. 

It ain’t no mortal kind o’ good,

 ’N’ I would n’t hurry ef I could. 

I like to jest go joggin’ ‘long,

 To limber up my soul with song; 

To stop awhile ‘n’ chat the men,

 ’N’ drink some cider now an’ then.

 Do’ want no boss a-standin’ by 

To see me work; I allus try 

To do my dooty right straight up, 

An’ earn what fills my plate an’ cup.

An’ ez fur boss, I’ll be my own,

 I like to jest be let alone, 

To plough my strip an’ tend my bees, 

An’ do jest like I doggoned please. 

My head’s all right, an’ my heart’s meller, 

But I’m a easy-goin’ feller.

The Poet

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

He sang of life, serenely sweet,

With, now and then, a deeper note.

From some high peak, nigh yet remote, 

He voiced the world’s absorbing beat.  

He sang of love when earth was young, 

And Love, itself, was in his lays. 

But, ah, the world, it turned to praise 

A jingle in a broken tongue.

More from Nikki Giovanni here.

Amanda Gorman made a big splash during the 2021 inauguration of President Joe Biden – at age 22, she was the youngest inaugural poet in U.S. history!

For There Is Always Light

By Amanda Gorman

When day comes, we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade?

The loss we carry. A sea we must wade.

We braved the belly of the beast.

We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace, and the norms and notions of what “just” is isn’t always justice.

And yet the dawn is ours before we knew it.

Somehow we do it.

Somehow we weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken, but simply unfinished.

We, the successors of a country and a time where a skinny Black girl descended from slaves and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president, only to find herself reciting for one.

And, yes, we are far from polished, far from pristine, but that doesn’t mean we are striving to form a union that is perfect.

We are striving to forge our union with purpose.

To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and conditions of man.

And so we lift our gaze, not to what stands between us, but what stands before us.

We close the divide because we know to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside.

We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another.

We seek harm to none and harmony for all.

Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true.

That even as we grieved, we grew.

That even as we hurt, we hoped.

That even as we tired, we tried.

That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious.

Not because we will never again know defeat, but because we will never again sow division.

Scripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree, and no one shall make them afraid.

If we’re to live up to our own time, then victory won’t lie in the blade, but in all the bridges we’ve made.

That is the promise to glade, the hill we climb, if only we dare.

It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit.

It’s the past we step into and how we repair it.

We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation, rather than share it.

Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy.

And this effort very nearly succeeded.

But while democracy can be periodically delayed, it can never be permanently defeated.

In this truth, in this faith we trust, for while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us.

This is the era of just redemption.

We feared at its inception.

We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour.

But within it we found the power to author a new chapter, to offer hope and laughter to ourselves.

So, while once we asked, how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe, now we assert, how could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?

We will not march back to what was, but move to what shall be: a country that is bruised but whole, benevolent but bold, fierce and free.

We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation, become the future.

Our blunders become their burdens.

But one thing is certain.

If we merge mercy with might, and might with right, then love becomes our legacy and change our children’s birthright.

So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left.

Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest, we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one.

We will rise from the golden hills of the West.

We will rise from the windswept Northeast where our forefathers first realized revolution.

We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the Midwestern states.

We will rise from the sun-baked South.

We will rebuild, reconcile, and recover.

And every known nook of our nation and every corner called our country, our people diverse and beautiful, will emerge battered and beautiful.

When day comes, we step out of the shade of flame and unafraid.

The new dawn balloons as we free it.

For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it.

If only we’re brave enough to be it.